


Courtship and Its Intricacies

by 0hHeyThereBigBadWolf



Series: Tales of a Dragon and His Prince [6]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Is A Romantic But Also A Dumbass, Courting Rituals, Do Not Re-Post To Another Site, Dragon Merlin (Merlin), Fluff and Humor, Gift Giving, Idiots in Love, Kilgharrah Ships Merlin/Arthur (Merlin), M/M, Merlin Is Just A Dumbass, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:27:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24777607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf/pseuds/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf
Summary: Arthur is courting the absolute most contrary creature ever to exist. Oh, gods. He's doomed.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Tales of a Dragon and His Prince [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1737112
Comments: 17
Kudos: 644





	Courtship and Its Intricacies

Of all the idiotic ideas he's had over the years, this is probably the worst of them.

Arthur shifts his grip on the torch, trying to ignore how sweaty his palms are. "Excuse me? Great Dragon?" He looks around the deep stone gorge, his voice echoing strangely off the high rock walls. Trying to remember how Merlin pronounced it, he ventures, "My lord Kilgharrah?" It doesn't hurt to be polite, does it?

"You may dispense with the formalities, young king."

He absolutely does _not_ yelp at the sound of the dragon's vast, rumbling voice echoing through the gorge, and he cranes his head back to see the enormous figure above him, perched on the edge of the gorge. "I would like to speak to you," he calls up.

The dragon flaps its great wings twice, lowering through the air with surprising grace to land on the bottom of the gorge, a dozen paces from where Arthur stands, and he lowers himself to lay on his belly with a sigh, folding in the great span of his wings again. "I must say, the young warlock has come to speak to me on a great many occasions, but I cannot recall ever speaking with you."

Arthur nearly replies that it is largely because the last time he and Kilgharrah interacted, the Great Dragon had been setting fire to the city and slaughtering his knights, but he bites the words back. Never let it be said that he can't be diplomatic. "I have come to understand that your kind are not as…uncivilized as I was taught," he says, choosing his words carefully. "I have been learning a great deal from Merlin, but this is something I cannot learn from him. Would I be too forward in assuming you have some manner of…courtship?"

The dragon's eyes narrow slightly, and though his face isn't quite as expressive as Merlin's is, Arthur has the feeling he's made the beast curious. "And why do you wish to court the young warlock when you are already mated to one another?"

Arthur stares, mouth agape. "How did you…?" He hadn't said anything about their 'mating,' and he devoutly prays that Merlin is not sitting down here discussing their intimate lives with this scaly old boulder.

"To see that which is not there, gaze upon what is," the dragon replies primly. "I can smell the both of you upon each other, and I am not so old as to have forgotten the scent of desire."

"Wh…but I…I washed," Arthur protests, horrified.

"So you did, but soap cannot wash all things away. I can smell a lie on a man's skin. Do you think I cannot also smell his lust?"

He presses a hand over his eyes. This must certainly be one of the most uncomfortable conversations he's ever had, right alongside the one he had with his father when he was three-and-ten about laying with women and the dangers of muddying the succession with bastards. "We're straying from my question."

"You have not yet answered mine."

He sighs, lowering his hands and propping them on his hips. "You aren't going to let this be, are you?" he asks; Kilgharrah only gazes at him. "Fine. _Fine._ I want to, all right? He says I am his mate, but he is also mine. I intend for him to be my consort, not merely a-a bedwarmer. I…I want to show him that."

He cannot try to court Merlin the way _he_ knows how. Merlin thinks it's foolish and doesn't know what half of the subtler things mean anyways, and if Arthur tells him, that will defeat the entire purpose. Courting princesses and noblewomen is, as a whole, easy. There are patterns he is expected to follow, like steps in a dance, things he is meant to do, things he cannot do, everything drawn out for him clean and clear. Not to mention, he's never had a truly personal stake in it. It had simply been part and parcel of his role as a courtier. This, however, is nothing like what he is used to, entirely foreign to what he knows. He doesn't know the steps to this dance, and he feels as though he's doing nothing but getting wrongfooted on every turn. If it was in his power, he would name Merlin his consort, repeal the ban, let him have whatever pleased him. Until he is king, however, none of that is possible, and there's little he can do without drawing Father's attention.

He props his hands on his hips. "Now, will you tell me or not?"

The dragon eyes him for a long moment, then snorts a plume of smoke and crosses his foreclaws before him. "Very well."

By the time he starts making the long walk back to the castle, he's learnt more about dragons than he has in all his life. Their manner of courtship isn't so complicated that he cannot manage it despite his being quite unchangeably human. Usually, they make gifts of things, as they are possessive by nature, so giving away things is one of the clearest expressions of affection. It usually begins with hunting, offering food to their potential mates. If it's well-received, they move on to the giving of treasures and other precious things, traditionally from one's personal hoard. There are other stages of it, but Arthur isn't entirely certain how to manage those as one of them involves flying together in an aerial 'dance.' Another in turn surprises and horrifies him because apparently, dragons write poetry. They _sing._

Still, he can work with this. It'll be fine.

Except…Merlin hates hunting. When he wears his dragon-skin, it is a necessity, as he can hardly go to the nearest tavern for a hot meal, but he hates going hunting with Arthur, whinges and sulks about the whole time, and makes every excuse he can to try to get out of going. He thinks it a wasteful and cruel sport.

And treasure? Merlin is one of the least fiscally responsible people Arthur has _ever_ known. For months, he hadn't even known that Arthur paid him at all, and once he had, he sent almost every copper of it to Ealdor for his mother. What he keeps, he usually ends up giving to whichever street urchin or beggar is nearest to the front steps, and it isn't as though he wears jewelry.

Merlin doesn't know how to dance, either. Hell, he can barely keep up with basic footwork on the training field, how could he ever manage numbered steps to music? It's not as if Arthur could ever invite him for a turn on the floor at the next ball.

And if Arthur reads him poetry, he might actually expire from laughing at him.

By the time he reaches the gates, despair has set in him. He is courting the absolute most contrary creature ever to exist.

Oh, gods. He's doomed.

* * *

The next morning, he resolves to figure it out. Somehow. He's a prince. He can make this work. He'll just have to be a little more…creative, that's all. He won't let a little thing like this get in his way.

The hunting bit is out of the question, clearly, but he wonders if it's the hunting itself or just the actual offering of food that's the gift? He imagines it's meant to show one is capable of providing for their mate, and Arthur's certainly capable of doing _that._ Still, offering food…it is Merlin job to bring Arthur food, not the other way around, and if Arthur ever decided to visit him with a tray of roast venison, Merlin is like to feed it to the dogs on mere suspicion. That's his own fault, he can admit. He'd been a bit too… enthusiastic in some of his jests early on, perhaps bordering on cruel at times.

It's fine. He can do this.

Merlin is fond of sweets. He thinks he's subtle, but Arthur's always noticed his dessert has been picked over before it arrives in his chambers. Not to mention his breakfast is usually short a honeyed oatcake or two, especially if they're fresh from the oven.

It's a starting point.

After he sends Merlin along on his duties, Arthur goes down to the market. If he goes to the kitchens, the other servants will probably twitter about it all day and give away the game before it begins. So, he goes on his usual walk through the marketplace, walking through the stalls until he comes to a vendor selling sweetmeats. He buys a large package of spiced almonds and candied lemon, separates them into smaller packets, and leaves one on Merlin's pillow once Gaius leaves for his rounds. He'll leave more of them in a day or two.

He debates momentarily whether or not to attach a note, but decides against it. Merlin ought to know it's from him; it's not as though anyone else is courting him.

Or at least so Arthur hopes.

* * *

Merlin doesn't say anything when he attends to Arthur that evening. But his fingertips are slightly sticky, and his breath smells of spiced almonds.

Arthur leaves him packets of the little sweetmeats twice a week for the next month.

* * *

For all his success with the first step in their peculiar courtship, Arthur finds himself facing another barricade when he comes to the next. How is he supposed to give Merlin treasure when the damn fool doesn't even keep his own pay?

Well…Merlin _did_ tell him once that the definition of treasure was subjective, unique to the individual. Treasure is what a person considers precious. However, there isn't much Arthur truly _treasures._ All his belongings have always been replaceable, easily exchanged whenever they were broken or worn-down.

Except…

The north wing of the castle has stayed empty for as long as he can remember, and it isn't until recently he's realised that in the days before the Purge, the magical members of court lived there. Now the old chambers are used mainly for storage.

Carefully picking his way through the haphazard mess, Arthur goes to the very back of the chamber and kneels on the dusty floor beside the old garment trunk, forgotten long ago. He'd found the trunk when he was barely a squire, and only by sheer luck, too, nosing about out of boredom. He'd never told anyone about it, either, not even Morgana.

The squeal of the hinges is almost painfully loud in the quiet of the chamber. For a moment, he only sits there, gazing into the trunk, then brushes the dust off his hands before he hesitantly eases out one of the garments, drawing the fabric out over his lap. The gown is dyed a deep, rich hue of purple, embroidered with long, winding chains of thin vines and tiny flowers around the sleeves and across the skirt. Arthur stays there kneeling on the floor with the gown on his lap, running a hand over the folds of the skirt. When he brings it to his nose and inhales, he can still smell traces of heady, flowery perfume. Though perhaps that is only his own imagination.

Perhaps he is not so unalike a dragon as he had thought, sitting here in the low light and brooding over this hidden cache of belongings. The thought grounds his decision, chasing reluctance away. His mother cannot be found in her old gowns. They were meant to be worn and admired, not slowly eaten away by time and moths in the back of an old chamber. He still has her seal, and that is enough.

He closes the trunk and gets to his feet, gown folded over his arm.

* * *

Merlin doesn't wear the neckerchief for over a week after he gets it.

Arthur is almost concerned until he catches him lying in their bed, running the rich violet cloth through his fingers again and again.

* * *

He doesn't care if it is part of draconic courtship or not, he is not going to sing. Absolutely _not._ However, for the sake of making the effort, he attempts to write a few lines of poetry. It promptly goes in the fire, and he's never attempting that again in his life, not ever. A quick venture into the library after Geoffrey falls asleep at his desk, and Arthur has an impressively weighty book of poetry instead. So he's cheating a bit, but given that he is a human attempting to court a dragon, he's allowed a little leeway.

Some of the poems make absolutely no sense to him, some are just bizarre, and some are a bit too…colourful for his purposes. After a bit of sorting, though, he does manage to find a few that are suitably flowery, just the sort of thing Merlin would like; for a dragon, he can be such a _girl_ sometimes.

Rather than risk Merlin laughing in his face, Arthur copies some of the more romantic bits onto small notes and leaves them with his gifts. Merlin is far too tall and broad through the shoulders to fit his mother's winter cloaks, but once the heavy fabric's been cut and sewn together, they make a much more suitable blanket than the ragged bit of sheeting on Merlin's bed, especially since he hates the cold so. The brightly coloured and patterned fabric from the gowns make better neckerchiefs than the rags he usually wears, too.

Arthur thinks it's going rather well.

That is, right up until Merlin approaches him in his chambers. "Arthur?"

"Yes?"

"These…these are from you, aren't they?" Merlin asks hesitantly. In one hand is the latest of Arthur's courting gifts to him, a scarf with a pattern that reminds him a bit of a tapestry, all flowers and birds and curly shapes; in the other, a folded bit of parchment that must be the accompanying poetic note.

Arthur stares. Of course they're from him. Who else would they be from? Oh no. "You don't like them?"

Merlin's eyes widen. "No! I mean, yes, I do, I do like them, but no, it's not that, I just…why? What is it for?"

His stomach drops. "What is it…?" he echoes, then presses both hands over his face.

 _What is it for?_ If there were ever four words that could lay him out flat. This was a dreadful idea, and he's an idiot for even attempting it. He cannot believe he was actually stupid enough to attempt this. Here he is thinking that he's doing a fine job, and Merlin doesn't even realise…. Oh, to hell with this. He won't ever be able to speak to that old bastard again; Kilgharrah will laugh his scales right off.

"Arthur? What is it? What's wrong?" Merlin sounds uneasy now. "I _do_ like them, Arthur, I promise, I just don't know why, that's all it is."

He only shakes his head in abject misery, still internally cursing his own damn foolishness. "I was trying to court you, you idiot," he grumbles, still covering his face.

"You were what?"

He drops his hands to snap, "I _said,_ I was _trying_ to _court_ you, you _idiot!"_

Merlin's mouth falls open. "Court…?"

"Yes! And it isn't _working,_ my way or your way because _you,_ Merlin, are the most infuriating, oblivious, contrary beast to ever walk the kingdoms!" Arthur rants, throwing his hands up in exasperation even as Merlin stares at him with wide eyes. "I even went to speak to that cryptic old tinderbox to ask him how dragons court so I could do this properly, and here you are asking me _what it's for."_

"You spoke to Kilgharrah?" Merlin's voice is small and soft.

"Oh, yes, I did, and I was treated to an absolutely delightful conversation about the redundancy of my courting you when we were already mated, which he knew because he can apparently _smell_ it on us, and he also felt it absolutely necessary to give me _instructions_ on how to best _please you._ Honestly, I would've taken my father's talk about bedding women over _that!"_ He takes a hand back through his hair, grabbing one of the pillows off his bed and hurling it at the wall in a mix of frustration and defeat. "I don't know why I expected differently. I make a better mummer than a mate. I can act the part perfectly well, but when it matters, I'm clear as mud and as useful as teats on a bull," he grumbles.

"Oh…oh, _Arthur."_ A hand catches his arm, turning him around, and then Merlin throws arms around his neck and lays a trail of kisses over his face, murmuring in low, purring Drakine. Arthur can't understand a word of it, but he thinks he hears his own name in there somewhere. Finally, Merlin lands a proper kiss on his mouth, firm and sweet; when he pulls back, he instead cups Arthur's face between his hands, and his eyes are bright.

"Oh, gods, you aren't going to cry, are you?" Arthur asks, horrified. He is _not_ good with tears, joyous or sorrowful.

"No, no," Merlin laughs, but still swipes a hand over his eyes. He strokes the fabric of the scarf, now draped around his neck, with new reverence, then reaches up to stroke Arthur's cheek. "And _you_ are a _perfect_ mate."

He huffs, disdainful. "One who cannot even manage to court his dragon by his own tradition?"

"I don't care about that," Merlin insists with a shake of his head. "Arthur, you _tried._ That's what matters."

He gives the young man a sceptical look, not entirely certain what's so pleasing about trying and failing. It hardly matters if he tries his best in a joust if he still gets unhorsed in the first tilt, and this ought to be doubly worse, as he cannot manage to court Merlin by human or dragon fashions.

Reading his expression, Merlin smiles again and presses himself closer, arms sliding around his shoulders. "I really do like my gifts, Arthur."

"You do?"

"Mm-hm. Come here," he murmurs and tugs Arthur in for another kiss, this time lingering a little longer.

His toes curl in his boots. His dragon certainly knows how to kiss. Arthur eases his arms further around Merlin's waist, lacing fingers together in the small of his back to hold him closer, opening his mouth to a teasing, exploring tongue. From the sugary lemon taste of Merlin's mouth, he's been indulging in one of those gifts, too. When Merlin draws away again, there's a new gleam in his eyes, which have taken on a dark amber tint that has little to do with his magic. Tightening his hold a little, he takes a step back towards the bed, pulling Arthur along with him.

Maybe he's not so terrible at dragon courting after all.


End file.
